Years ago, I spent this one winter dating a person we’ll call Charlie. We did all the things that people in relationships do. Held hands in the street. Told people that we were together. I think they even met my mum at one point. And then, just as quickly as it began, it was over. The sun came out in March, and I realised that I’d been playing pretend. They got themselves a real girlfriend, and I was happy for them.
Looking back, I was probably just lonely and trying something out for size – I don’t feel mean saying that; I believe they were doing the same thing. And it was cold outside. And I was bored. Now, we have a well-rinsed term for that: “cuffing season”, which refers to the phenomenon of suddenly wanting to just stay inside with exclusively one person, watching David Attenborough documentaries and getting eaten out. It usually coincides with the release of pumpkin-spiced lattes (Autumn), and ends as soon as we no longer feel the lingering effects of Seasonal Affective Disorder (early Spring). Hence, the idea of it being a season.
TikTok will tell you that cuffing season sucks because “if you’re not dating to marry, you’re dating to break up” which makes no sense, unless you’re in a Jane Austin novel. Charlie may not have been my person, but I enjoyed our winter together. I liked sleeping next to a person; waking up with my face squished against their back, reaching for a hand in the night. And it’s fun to spend time with someone new, even if it’s short-lived. I may not have thought about Charlie in years, but I remember the story-book colours of their tattoos and the egg yolk shade of their lashes. I remember how well they played guitar. All of this must count for something.
On a more practical level, it can be a relief to pump the brakes on the relentlessness of dating and one-time hook-ups, and just do that with one person for an allotted amount of time, especially when it’s freezing outside and you have no money because you spent it all on Christmas tatt and your tax bill. So long as neither of you catch the deadly and sometimes contagious disease known as “feelings”, there is no reason to not embrace cuffing season as your body so desires. If we only ever dated people that we were intending to spend a lifetime with, then we’d probably only ever be with one person from the off, or none, which wouldn’t make life very interesting.
Cuffing season also needn’t be menacingly opportunistic. One friend described her last cuffing season relationship as “essentially being the plot line of Drake’s “Take Care”, whereby we both needed someone in that moment, so that we could get over a break-up and emerge single in time for summer.” Another friend told me that some of her favourite relationships have only lasted over the winter. “You get all the nice cosy stuff, without the shit stuff that comes later, like bickering about hoovering or who’s turn it is to sort out the bills.” Long-term relationships take work, which can be rewarding, but sometimes, you don’t want work, or meaningful rewards. You just want regular sex and a few turns around an ice-rink with a hot chocolate.
Cuffing season can also allow you to toy with what you do or don’t want, and try something out for size. I often think about that Girls episode from season two in which Hannah (Lena Dunham) plays house with a handsome and recently divorced doctor, Joshua (Patrick Wilson). You know their relationship isn’t going to last. You know they just need to be with another person in that moment. But it’s fun, isn’t it? Like dipping your toes into the shape of someone else’s life for a little while, and imagining what might happen if you fully inhabited it.
I’ve been cuffed for a while now – not seasonally cuffed, full-time cuffed. But I don’t regret those not-quite relationships of times gone by. Some were lovely, some were silly, some actually belong in the fires of hell, but each taught me something. Occasionally, relationships are built to last a lifetime. Often though, they’re built to last the length of exactly one season of Succession, if you were to watch an episode a week. Nothing more, nothing less.
